Different Paths, Same Story
by Bryn T. Wedge
Summary: What if John never took that walk in that park at that exact time, and never ran into Mike Stamford? John and Sherlock's lives are entwined, and so they keep crossing paths as the events of season 1 play out... just a little differently.
1. Chapter 1 - Episode 1

_Author's Notes: This story is an idea much like the episode "Turn Left" of Doctor Who. I kept thinking … what if John didn't run into Mike Stamford? He would have never been introduced to Sherlock, so how would their lives play out? Here they keep crossing paths… their lives are entwined, and so will end up together one way or another. I have written sections separated each focusing on John and Sherlock's lives, until sections of them meeting._

 _The events of the season still occur, but I've written how it was different without John and Sherlock solving the cases together._

Episode One

Beneath a typically grey English day, a man with short dirty blonde hair and a stiff posture stood on the street, looking at the park across. He'd just came from a meeting with the government military pension agency, and had nothing else left to do for the day. Strike that, nothing else to do for the week. He could take a stroll through the park to the tube station closest to his depressingly plain flat, or he could just call a taxi now. He looked down at his leg, knowing that without the limp he'd not take a second thought to the pleasant nature walk … so maybe he should? Sighing, he called for a taxi, saying to himself softly "John Watson… how much difference could a walk in the park make, really."

Across town, a tall, pale man with dark curls and icy blue eyes grumbled into his phone at his obnoxious brother: "No, Mycroft."  
"Come on Sherlock, no one can stand being around you for more than five minutes. Do you really think someone would want to cohabitate with you?"

"It's statistically unlikely but not impossible."

"Face it Sherlock, no one likes you. Can you blame them? You irritate everyone beyond belief. Just accept my offer."

"I'm not reporting to you."

"Nothing detailed, just updates about your activities at least once a week, including any cases you're working on. It's not much to ask in return for half of your rent."

Sherlock scowled at the phone, despite knowing that his brother had a point.  
"I'll take that as your agreement." Sherlock heard escaping the phone.

"Fine. But the deal's off as soon as I find a flatmate!" Sherlock snapped and hung up. He hated his brother interfering, but he did so love the apartment he'd found at 221B Baker Street. The landlady was an old friend of sorts, and was already giving him a good offer for the flat, and so he felt like it was pertinent to accept the offer.

He moved his things in, scattered his experiments and possessions around the pre-existing furniture. There was a lounge chair in the living room already, an old used red one, but he preferred his black leather one. He did spend a large amount of time sitting in it, pondering, and so had insisted on getting a chair up to the task. Still, he left the old one where it was. He looked at it, hoping that maybe one day soon he'd have someone to sit in it. He really didn't like having to report to his brother. No doubt Mycroft had already installed surveillance equipment, and so would get most of the information he already needed, and so it was evident that making Sherlock report to him was only for Mycroft's amusement in controlling his little brother.

John stared at his blog, the stupid activity his psychologist insisted he continue. The words 'failed to walk through a park' glared up at him. He couldn't help but feel such a failure. It was one of the few things he felt anymore. Just a resounding sorrow, and a deep self-hatred for what he'd become. A useless, struggling, ordinary man with nothing in his life. John rubbed his face with his hand. He couldn't help but feel that he should have died when he was shot. At least then he wouldn't have to deal with all this. The nightmares every night, the dull emptiness that was the day. He just wished it would all go away… but he knew there was only one way to achieve that. And he couldn't do that. He told himself that more and more as of late: he couldn't commit suicide. He told himself he was stronger than that. But all that served to do was put more pressure on himself to be better than he was. And that made him feel worse for knowing he wasn't who he thought he should be.

John stood and stared out the window. The weather was bleak, but dry. He could go for a walk. Instead, he hung his head. He couldn't face that. He sighed. His life was just nothing now. The only things that happened to him were in his nightmares now. He used to be someone, he used to do things that were important. How he wished he could still have that excitement in his life, that he could use his skills to make a difference again. John smiled softly to himself, a sad wistful smile. There was no way to have that life anymore.

Sherlock sat in his flat, which seemed far too empty despite the clutter. Suddenly a greying man was at the door, DI Greg Lestrade, looking determined.  
"Sherlock…"

"Another? What's different about this one?"  
"You know how they never leave a note? Well this one did."

Sherlock nodded in Greg's direction, standing. The serial suicides case was starting to make progress.

"Who's on forensics?" Sherlock posed, grabbing his coat.

"Anderson." Greg replied.

"Grr, Anderson won't work with me. I need an assistant."

"Well when you find someone who can tolerate being around you without punching you, you let me know. Until then, you're stuck with Anderson."

Sherlock winced while he put his scarf on. He really did have no choice in the matter. He wanted to work this case, it was the first exciting thing that had happened in months.

After mere minutes Sherlock had deduced the note left, scratched into the floorboards, as 'Rachel'; as well as the victim being a serial adulterer from Cardiff in town for a night and her suitcase as missing. On a high, Sherlock darted from the building to search for the missing case. He found it infuriating how slow Lestrade and his team were: of course the suitcase was pink, and understandably had to be disposed of where it wouldn't be found.

It had only taken the better part of an hour to find the case. Sherlock studied all the items in detail, however noted that the mobile phone was absent. Lestrade had shown him everything they'd found with the body (nothing), and so he assumed the phone was still with the murderer. He typed and sent a carefully worded message to the woman's phone number, prompting an immediate return call. Sherlock gleefully smiled at the phone as he sat in his chair, fingers entwined underneath his chin. The game was on.

John let his fingers glide smoothly over the cold metal of his gun. His eyes were closed as he imagined using the weapon. But his gut wrenched at the thought. He couldn't. Thoughts of those who found him, the trauma they'd suffer, flashed through his mind. But there was a very dark, very comforting thought that followed: he wouldn't be around to care. His mind swirled around, listing things he would miss (not an awful lot, honestly), and regrets he had. That blasted park blared in his mind. He wasn't sure why, but it stood out as something important that he'd screwed up. His therapist wouldn't understand. She didn't understand anything. All of this relaxation, calm, and quiet seemed to be just driving him more and more insane, not fixing anything. He had the feeling that maybe he should tell her about his suicidal feelings, but knew that she wouldn't take that the right way. Whether she overreacted and committed him or underreacted and told him to get some rest John knew he'd feel just worse for having said anything. So no, he kept everything to himself. There was also a darker motive that gnawed in the back of his mind: telling people would only make it harder to do.

John stood and cleaned up what little there was to clean. He then took his keys, phone, and wallet, and left. He'd decided that he was going back to the park, and taking the bloody walk. One less thing to cross off his list of regrets. At least once it was done, he might have some peace with his decision. Clear his conscious from eating away at him.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock sat at a table by the window in a small Italian restaurant. The manager came out, greeted him friendly, and offered him some food. He declined, but felt compelled to get something that justified his use of the table. He asked for some water.

It wasn't long and he noticed a cab pull up outside the address he'd texted the murder. Leaping from the table, Sherlock darted out the door and bounded towards the cab. It subsequently took off, and Sherlock calculated the taxi's route and an intercept course. Wasting no time, he dashed off across the streets and buildings of London.

Exhausted, Sherlock caught the car and pulled open the door to find … an American, fresh from the airport. There was no way this was the culprit… it must have just been coincidence that the taxi stopped at that specific place. Grumbling to himself, he slammed the door in the baffled stranger's face, and headed back to Baker Street. He had been so _close_ and yet got nowhere. No more leads to follow. Sherlock kicked a can that lay on the street in frustration. He was so sure the murderer would come to the address. He walked home, deflated. That was until he noticed a light on in his flat.

John got out of the taxi in the same place he'd gotten into one the other day. He knew it was dark, but he didn't care. Enjoying the scenery wasn't the point. He walked through the park, eyeing the trees and the shadows that danced about in the dim light. It felt strangely liberating. He didn't realise how much stress he'd held because of his decision. But it honestly felt like a weight off his chest. John smiled to himself, but deep down knew it wasn't because he was happy or relieved. It was because he was _free_. He could end his life now without any pressing regrets. He'd done good things in his life. He was a doctor and a soldier. He'd seen things most people would never dream of seeing, he'd saved lives many didn't think mattered. He'd lost friends at the hand of an enemy, and he'd shot down some of those enemy soldiers that he knew would have also had friends just like he did, friends that would have felt the hurt of their loss as well.

John sighed, now on the other side of the park. He'd seen too much. Enough for a lifetime. He didn't need to experience any more. He stood up straight, in typical soldier fashion, and hailed a taxi. As a black car pulled up before him, he thought to himself ' _I will face the end like I lived my life: head on and with courage'._

John sat in the back seat, not paying much attention to the scenery that flashed before him. He felt empty, but comfortable. He then noticed that he wasn't going the right direction. Not interested in paying for extra, he spoke up.  
"Excuse me mate, but this isn't the right way."

"Oh I'm taking you to where you need to go, don't worry about that."

"No, I live here and I know how to get to my flat. We're going the wrong way."

John crossed his arms. He didn't know if it was worth getting a different taxi.  
"I think just here will do, thanks." John ended up saying.

The Cabbie pulled over, and John took out his wallet. He looked up and froze, suddenly looking down the barrel of a gun pointed towards his face.

"So… you're going to kill me now?" John spoke in monotone.

"I'm not going to kill you. I'm going to talk to you. And then, you're going to kill yourself."

John remained motionless, but scoffed inwardly. He didn't need a conversation to decide to kill himself. The old Cabbie took off, and continued driving until pulling up at a school. It was dark, so John couldn't tell if the school was abandoned or just empty. He guessed it didn't matter. He would have preferred to die somewhere aesthetically pleasing, like outdoors, but that didn't matter either.

Sherlock sat in his chair, mulling over things. He was not impressed with Anderson being in his flat, but there was little he could do about it. Greg stood, talking to him, but Sherlock had stopped listening after he'd said "It stops being pretend if they find anything."

There was something he was missing.

"Sherlock?"  
Sherlock flicked his eyes up at the inspector.

"Sherlock, please, you have to let us in on things."

Before Sherlock could answer, Anderson piped up. "You said the murderer has the suitcase. And here you are, with the suitcase. I think it's pretty clear."

"Use your brain, Anderson. I'm not the murderer. I'd certainly know enough to keep evidence away from you at least." Sherlock turned to Greg. "There was one item missing, though. Her phone… she'd have been careful about it, so it doesn't make sense she'd just leave it anywhere, but she left it with him and then…oh."

"What?" Greg asked, still not used to Sherlock cutting him out of the conversation.

"Oh, that's good."  
"Sherlock."

"Rachel!"

"What?"

"Don't you see, Lestrade? Rachel!"

Greg shook his head. Sherlock rolled his eyes, muttering insults to them, as he flipped open his computer. He brought up a website as Greg peered over his shoulder.

"It wasn't an accident. She _planted_ that phone on the murderer, and gave us the password! Rachel!"  
"Alright, but why?"  
"Really? You still don't get it? It was a smartphone, Lestrade. It has GPS, and the ability of tracing the phone's location online in case it got lost. She's dead and she's still smarter than you lot… she's lead us right to him."

Sherlock brought up the GPS tracker website and entered "Rachel" as the password. After a few moments, the map flashed to indicate the phone's location. He eyed it, committing it to memory. Sherlock then shut the laptop, swirled in the chair, and darted out the door. Greg rolled his eyes and chased after him.


	3. Chapter 3

The Cabbie used the gun to get John through the door. They sat opposite each other at a desk in a hall.

"So, what's your name?"  
"Does it matter?"  
The cabbie chuckled. "No I guess not, but this is the last conversation you're ever gonna have, so might as well make the most of it."

"John. John Watson. And since you're certain I'm going to die, why don't you tell me about you? Why are you doing this?"  
"I have my reasons."  
"Do you want to kill me?"  
"No, Mr Watson, I don't want to kill ya. But I want a good life for my kids."  
"Your kids?"  
"Yeah. Doesn't look it, eh? But I'm not gonna be 'round much longer, see. I need to make sure they're ok."

John was confused. He frowned at the Cabbie. The old man smiled back and leaned in.

"I have a sponsor… the more people I kill, the more I get from him for my kids."

"Him?"  
The Cabbie leaned away, back in his chair, still smiling.

"Oh come on, if this is the last conversation I'm ever going to have, then at least let me die without questions unanswered."

The man took his glasses off and chuckled. "I guess you're right. You know, I've played this game four times and they all sobbed the whole time. Why aren't you?"

"I was in the military. We were trained to face death with composure. The name?"

"Ah, that makes sense. Not a chance." The old Cabbie smiled and pulled out two jars. "Now here's the game. Two jars. Two pills. Both identical. There's a good bottle and a bad bottle… Take the pill from the good bottle, you live. Take the pill from the bad bottle, you die."

Sherlock crouched around the corner of the building. The taxi was out front, and then hit him: a Cabbie. It was the Cabbie! Only a Cabbie is able to hunt in a crowd and not rouse suspicion. It was perfect.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock scowled and peered at the whisper behind him.  
"Greg. What are you doing here?"  
"Following you! I know you, you're tracking him down. He's here, isn't he!"  
"Keep your voice down! Yes, he's here."  
"Damnit Sherlock, we should have gotten a team down here."  
"And alert him? No. Come on."

Sherlock moved forward and snuck into the building, Greg on his tail with gun in hand.

John observed the bottles. They were identical. He raised his eyebrow at the Cabbie.

"It's a 50-50 chance then. How is that you being certain that I'm going to die?"

"This is a game… chess, not chance. And here's the only move."

The old man slid one of the bottles towards John. "Did I give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can pick either, and here's the best part…whichever one you don't pick, I take. Then we both take our medicine."

"And if I don't?" John asked, knowing the answer anyway as the Cabbie pointed the gun in his direction.

John nodded. He took a deep breath. In a way, this was everything he could have hoped for. The idea of being murdered was more appealing than suicide. There were all kinds of stigmas attached to suicide, but murder… murder was easier. As a doctor, however, he knew how slow and painful poisons could be. He'd honestly prefer a good kill shot by the gun.

Sherlock and Lestrade snuck through the halls, searching for the right room. There was a light shining from somewhere, and they were getting closer. They had to be quick enough to catch the Cabbie before the murder happened, but not so loud that they'd alert him and he'd scramble… lest they lose the best chance of catching the culprit altogether. Besides, Lestrade really did need to catch him in the act if he was going to have a solid case for a conviction.


	4. Chapter 4

"I'll take the gun, thank you."

The Cabbie's eyes grew wide. No one had asked that of him before. He tilted his head to the side, and without any hesitation, pulled the trigger. John jumped, but then just looked at the little flame that burst forth from the gun. It was a lighter. It wasn't a real gun. The pit of his stomach dropped. The Cabbie tossed the gun onto the table, knowing he was beat.

"How did you know?" he asked.

"I was in the military. I think I know a real gun when I see one." John lied, trying to mask his disappointment. Still, murder was less shameful than suicide, and so decided to play along.

"But, since you've come to kill me either way, I know you're not going to just let me go. So, I might as well take my chances."

John stood and grabbed one of the bottles. The Cabbie looked extremely uncertain but tried to keep a resolve. He took the other bottle, and opened it up. John looked at the elderly man, and put the pill he dropped out of the bottle he snatched in his mouth; but held it between his lips waiting for the Cabbie to follow suit. The Cabbie held the pill in his hand, and muttered to himself.

"Moriarty'll only pay if I play the game…I'm dead anyway…"

John looked confused, but swallowed the pill as the Cabbie swallowed his. And he waited. He looked about, tense. The Cabbie looked back at him the same. They both sat down at the table. John wasn't sure how long it took to start feeling anything. Then the Cabbie coughed, and spluttered. John's eyes went wide. He'd just escaped death… and he was disappointed. And that shocked him. So much so that he just sat there frozen as the Cabbie spluttered before him.

John then jumped out of his skin and to his feet when the door slammed open and two men burst through. One was grey haired, with hard lines on his face, and pointing a gun into the room. The other was tall with dark curls that lapped against his white crisp face. The elder's gun lowered, but he still remained alert. The taller man strolled in, standing straight, and scanned the room. His eyes fell on the Cabbie, who had now slipped onto the floor in a choking fit.

Sherlock knelt down to observe the dying Cabbie. The other man, who seated himself at the table again, was just another of his would-be victims.

"What happened?" Greg addressed the clearly shocked man.

"Uh, um … he, he picked me up in the taxi and took me here. He told me to choose a bottle with a pill in it and he'd take the other and one of the pills would kill … and that he'd shoot me if I didn't choose." John mumbled.  
"What's your name?"  
"John … Watson"

"DI Greg Lestrade. This is -"

"- Sherlock Holmes."

John absent mindedly stuck his hand out. Greg shook it, however Sherlock put his hands behind his back as he stood and nodded at John. The old man on the floor was still groaning, albeit slowly. John assumed he'd not have much time left.

"Don't take this the wrong way, John, but how are you alive? I mean, he's killed four others… how did you survive?"  
"I don't know." John stated honestly, doing his best to mask the disappointment he still felt in his gut.

There was a groan and an exhale of breath from the Cabbie. John knew that meant he'd died. His eyes flickered between the DI and the … possibly also detective Holmes. They made no moves to assist the man or really do anything different now that there was a dead body in the room with them.

"It's obvious." Sherlock stated, looking John up and down. Both John and Greg stared at Sherlock demanding an explanation.

"The murderer played that game with each of his victims, carefully planning out the results and outcomes of his victims' choices. He succeeded the previous four occasions in playing the people he abducted, but not with John here for one simple reason that was overlooked: the others were trying to choose the bottle that let them live, John was trying to choose the one that would let him die."

John's eyes flickered about the room, suddenly feeling very anxious and in the spotlight. How… how could this man just know that? Greg looked at John, half expecting Sherlock to be mistaken (despite knowing how rare that is), but was stricken at seeing John's reaction confirming Sherlock's statements. Suddenly Greg wasn't sure what to do… he couldn't recall the protocol for handling a suicidal murder victim survivor. Was there even a protocol for that?

At the silence, Sherlock continued.  
"I imagine you asked to be shot by the gun instead first, but took the pill once discovering it is in fact fake in the hopes of concealing your suicide as murder."

John's jaw had clamped shut, but he nodded softly at Sherlock. John was honestly… impressed.

"Did he say anything else to you? Why he tried to kill you?" Sherlock asked, eyes piercing into John's soul.

"Um …yeah, I asked that. He said that he wanted money for his kids, and that his sponsor… I think his name was Moriarty… would pay him for, um, for doing this. The killing game thing." John responded. Sherlock looked away, processing the information.

"Right. Well, I only have one more question: was it Afghanistan or Iraq?"  
"I…er…huh?" John stumbled on his words, completely shocked at the question. How could he _possibly_ know that? John mumbled out 'Afghanistan' as Greg scolded Sherlock not to show off right now, as John was 'clearly in shock'. It was true, John was in shock. But not about the murderer… about Sherlock.

"Lestrade I suggest calling your team now to come and collect the body. I'm sure you're capable of closing off this case now." Sherlock instructed. "As for John, I suggest you find him some help after debriefing or you'll have to deal with another body soon enough. Yes, he already has a therapist but no, they're not helping him." He then turned to leave.

"Hey, wait! How… how did you know all of that?" John croaked out, standing again and grabbing the cane. Sherlock turned and looked John over once more.

"I didn't know, I observed. The hairstyle and the way you hold yourself says military, but you've been decommissioned because of injury. Your tanline suggests recent service in a sunny location; given the places where Britain has military interest currently leaves only Afghanistan and Iraq as options. You have the gaze of someone disinterested in life, and no evidence of distress at being threatened with death. Your clean but uncared for clothes indicate the same: you want to be presentable to hide your emotions, but don't have the energy to embrace your appearance. The Cabbie's gun is tossed on the table, obviously after showing you it wasn't real, meaning you had chosen the gun over poison. But after seeing you were no longer forced to play his game you continued, taking the second option of death presented to you. No one other than a suicidal man would continue to play a 50-50 life and death chance with a murderer when the only means of forcing them to play is taken out of the equation. A military man discharged would of course have a therapist, especially one with a psychosomatic limp, but as you are here your therapist obviously doesn't know how serious your suicidal ideation is therefore you don't trust them enough to tell them." Sherlock blurted out rapidly.

Greg stood there nervously, not sure what John's reaction would be. He still did need a statement from him for the case, after all.

"That's…brilliant." John uttered. Sherlock's head tilted, as if he had been expecting insults thrown at him, not compliments. He gave John a warm smile. Sherlock quite enjoyed being praised, rather than his usual insulted and/or assaulted. He normally didn't like people, but John had very quickly made it on to Sherlock's 'like' list. And knowing that he liked him, it bothered him that John might take his own life soon.

"But it's not psychosomatic." John commented. Sherlock just continued to smile knowingly, and raised his eyebrows. Sherlock turned around and began to walk away.

"Get some help, John. It'd be a shame to lose someone like you." Sherlock said loudly as he left, his baritone voice echoing down the hall.


	5. Chapter 5

Greg had gotten the statement from John regarding the events of the evening. Normally that would be where the association ended, however Greg had a few things extra to talk to John about. He led the military man to his office, and indicated towards a chair for John to sit down across the desk from him.

"There's just one more thing I need to talk about, Mr. Watson."  
"Doctor."  
"Yes, that's what I was about to…"  
"No, I mean it's Doctor Watson."  
"Oh, I'm sorry John. I didn't realise. So you're a doctor and a soldier? That's rather impressive."

John didn't know what to say to that. He knew what Greg was about to suggest, and the doctor in him knew he was right to say it.

"Doctor first, then soldier." John commented to break the silence. Greg nodded.

"Well, John, in a way that makes this a little easier. I mean, I know as a military doctor you would have seen quite a lot of traumatic things…"  
"Please don't." John said. Greg shut his mouth instantly, thinking he was bringing up the memories that were giving the doctor enough PTSD to be suicidal. John just didn't want to be patronised.

"I'm sorry. It's just that…it's ok, you know? To feel like things are too much. I won't pretend to understand, alright, but at least as a doctor you should be able to appreciate what I have to do."

John swallowed and nodded. Greg pulled out some paperwork and signed them.  
"I'm sending these over to the hospital. They're instructions to have you admitted to the psych ward. I'm sorry, I really am, but Sherlock's right. I really don't want to get a call and come out to find your body."  
John sighed. He wanted to be angry at being committed, which he was, but he wasn't angry at Greg for doing it.

"Thank you, Gregory. I mean, you're being a lot nicer about this than you need to be."

Greg smiled at John. "Hey, you stopped a killer today I had been hunting for ages. I feel like I owe it to you to keep you alive."

Greg stood with the papers, and decided to take John to the hospital himself. He liked John. He wasn't like the other victims he usually dealt with – well, the living victims, that was. He was calm, collected, and obedient…if not a little sullen. And he was certainly talented. He picked up a piece of paper, and wrote down his number on it.

"Here. This is my number. Call me if you need anything ok? Being the one that's admitting you means I'm now a bit involved in your care legally, so I think it'd be nice to keep in touch a little? Only if you need it, ok?"

John took it, and nodded. He didn't have much fight in him; he knew that he would be taken in to the hospital anyway. He still could appreciate that Greg was trying to be a friend rather than just a dictator over his life. That didn't stop the shame he felt when the DI escorted him to the hospital and handed the paperwork over to the receptionist. John looked at the floor mostly, ignoring the world around him, except for looking back at Greg who smiled at him as he left the building.

John sighed. He didn't know how long he'd be trapped here. They were organising someone to go with him back to his small flat to get his clothes and anything else he wanted. He almost chuckled at the thought of bringing his Browning with him.

Sherlock reported to his brother his involvement with the most recent case, including the fact that he only caught the murderer after his latest victim 'outwitted' him. Sherlock casually mentioned to Mycroft that he was impressed with John, the victim, and wanted Mycroft to keep an eye out for him. Sherlock couldn't see Mycroft's smile and raise of eyebrow as he agreed.


	6. Chapter 6 - Episode 2

_Author's Notes: Hello, Episode Two is a little bit more complicated than Episode One. I haven't finished writing the episode in full yet, but I wanted to upload a little extra to show that it's not over yet._

Episode Two

John exhaled into the cold night air. He looked at the buildings around him absent mindedly while thinking to himself. The hospital had been awfully embarrassing. As had the visits with his therapist. As he'd expected, she'd just scolded him for not talking about his feelings. Still, John had tried hard to get on with life. He wrote a little in his blog about the hospital, and his days since leaving… but it was still brief and boring. Everything in his life was just mind numbingly dull. And he hated it. He'd honestly tried to do activities during the day, but he hadn't been allowed to do much. Nothing that would "over-excite him".

John scowled to himself, breath freezing in the air. No one wanted him to do anything anymore. And then it came back. The awful darkness in his soul, the nightmares that dribbled into the day and made his waking moments tormented as well. He hated that he felt such overwhelming depression at the emptiness of his life, and felt unending worthlessness from contributing nothing anymore. For being nothing anymore. He was, in truth, useless. He didn't help anyone anymore. At least in his nightmares he still had a purpose and excitement.

John kicked his legs back and forth as they dangled over the edge of the building. He had been sitting over the edge for a couple of hours now, just thinking and watching the world go by beneath his feet. He didn't think he would actually jump, but he just felt the compulsion to be up there, in danger. It placated that dark monster in his soul that urged him on to hurt himself or end his life. He couldn't let people find his mangled body on the street below. That would be just too much trauma to inflict on so many people. He had other ways. Namely, his Browning that he ran his fingers along daily. He hated that he was back to feeling this way all the time, but he also felt a strange comfort by it. That it was something that wouldn't leave him alone, ever, and so ending his life wouldn't be just a result of a passing thing that would cause waste to the rest of a better life.

Sherlock laid on the couch in his dressing gown. He was bored. And moreover, he was utterly sick of Mycroft. But no matter how he complained, Mycroft remained unmoving. If Sherlock didn't give the required update, Mycroft hounded him until he did. But, at least his brother had done as requested and kept a distant eye on John. Sherlock's mind swirled as he thought back to the army doctor. Lestrade had informed him that John was a doctor the morning after the case, and Sherlock had been rather impressed. He wasn't impressed with a lot, but John had managed it.

Sherlock rolled onto his side. He'd been glad when Mycroft's reports had said John had been released and was trying to do things with his life. He'd even considered going out to 'run into' John at some point. But his brother had urged him not to, as he insisted that John was going to fall into a downward spiral again soon. Sherlock ignored him until the reports supported Mycroft's suspicions. If John was still fragile, and indeed depressed, then Sherlock appearing back into John's life would not have gone well, according to Mycroft. Sherlock thought otherwise, however. He'd insisted that John would not only tolerate his annoying habits, but actually enjoy the change of pace. But Mycroft retaliated, reminding him that if he was wrong, Sherlock would be the final push to cause the doctor to take his own life. If anything, Sherlock's compliance was a testament to just how worried he was that such a situation was a possibility. He didn't want to be back living in a world where _no one_ was impressed with him. He liked that somewhere, there was John Watson, the only person to compliment him without selfish intention. Secretly, he hoped that this man would be able to tolerate him, and release him from the chains of his brother.

John's eyes flickered up to a building at the sight of movement. He peered closer, his eyes adjusted to the dark, and saw a figure scaling the glass wall of the tall building not far from where he sat. The figure opened a window, snuck in and then in a flash was back out again. John shook his head… was he really seeing this? The dark figure closed the window and quickly slid down towards the ground.

John blinked. What had he just seen? Surely it couldn't have been a break in… they were in there for less than a minute, what could they have taken in that time? Maybe it was just a hallucination. But John knew it wasn't, at least in all likelihood. He didn't have any symptoms associated with hallucinations nor had he taken things for it. He hung his head. He knew he should report it to the police, but he really _really_ didn't want to talk with police. He just… no. He couldn't. He just couldn't deal with them and their questions and suspicions right now. Then he remembered he still had Greg's number.

Greg had called him once while in the hospital, and once after being told he was released. They had been short conversations, but still more conversation than John usually had in his days. John pulled out his phone, and, despite knowing it was late, he called the DI.

"Lestrade." A groggy voice sounded from the speaker.

"Oh, um, hi Greg. It's John, John Watson… the guy you put in the hospital after the case with the Cabbie?"  
"Oh. Yes, John, I remember you mate. Look, is everything alright? What's going on?"

"Yeah, I know it's late Detective Inspector. I'm sorry. But I thought I'd better tell someone, and you're the only one I could talk to right now."

On the other line, a sleepy DI Lestrade sat up in bed. John's words struck a chord inside him, and he was suddenly worried. He decided to repeat himself as he got out of bed.

"John, what's going on? Where are you?"  
"Where? Um just on a building near the national bank building…"

Greg had started to get changed, awkwardly, holding the phone to his ear.  
"You what? Why…" Greg started to ask, but the thought of John jumping off a building ground into his gut and closed his throat in fear of pushing the man in any way. Still, his heart hammered in his chest as he threw on his pants and grabbed his coat.  
"…Listen, I'm on my way alright? Just stay there and tell me the address, mate."

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Greg just assumed he was about to kill himself. Well, actually now John thought of it, all the DI knew was that he was being called at some hour of the night by the guy he'd put in the hospital for being suicidal, who was standing on a building. Good one, John. "No, Greg, it's not that… I saw something."

Greg stopped as he was putting on one of his shoes.

"What do you mean? What did you see?"  
"I saw a person climb up the side of the bank building, break in, and then not a minute later climb out the same window and slide back down."

Greg slumped, slightly annoyed that he was worked up over nothing but mostly just relieved. "Oh. Why are you calling me about it then?"

"I know, I'm sorry, I just thought I should report it but I couldn't talk to the police, I just couldn't, I don't know why… I …" John rambled, his voice breaking and eventually just not going as emotions rose up and threatened to break through his veneer. He really couldn't let anyone hear him cry.

Greg registered the distress in John's voice. "Are you alright there, mate? You can talk to me if not."

"Yeah, yeah… I er…" John cleared his throat in an attempt to regain his composure. "I'm fine. I was just thinking about things, and just felt I needed to do that up here."  
The pang of worry stabbed at Greg's stomach again at the use of the word 'up'. He slowly continued to slip his foot into his shoe.  
"Up where, John?"  
"I told you, the building."  
"A little more specifically?"  
"Oh I don't know Greg, I didn't notice exactly … I was just walking around and came up to the roof of a tallish building on the way." John all but snapped, getting annoyed at being questioned for doing the right thing.

"Ok ok, I'm sorry for pushing. I just care, you know."

"I wouldn't jump." John stated bluntly.

Greg stopped moving, his other shoe in hand. "That's good." Greg responded, despite knowing that while John wouldn't jump, that didn't mean he wouldn't commit suicide. "Are you still there?"  
"Yeah."  
"Why don't you come down off the roof and we can talk?"  
John grumbled. Greg started to ramble.

"No no, I mean, you don't have to talk if you don't want to but I meant about the person you saw breaking into the bank. But, you know, if you wanted to talk about other things that'd be ok to, I just meant about the bank…"

"Greg. Be quiet."

"Sorry. Look we can take a statement from you in the morning about the break in. Do you remember where my office is?"  
"Yeah."

"Right, good. Well come by my office at 9 o'clock tomorrow morning, ok?"  
"Ok. I'll be there."

There was an awkward silence for a moment. John was still staring aimlessly off into the distant skyline while sitting on the edge of the building, and Greg was sitting on the edge of his bed mostly dressed holding a shoe.  
"Listen, John, before I go… do you want me to come out and meet you?"  
"No, thank you Greg. I'm fine. I'll go home soon."  
"Ok, if you're sure. Just, could you please hop off the roof?"  
"Greg…" John started, a smile bursting from his lips.  
"Please, John, just so I can go back to sleep…"  
"No, Greg… you're really not good at this, are you?" John giggled.

"What's so funny?" snorted Greg, annoyed that his care was taken so carelessly.

"As a doctor, I can tell you that using the words 'hop off the roof' to talk down a suicidal person isn't the best idea."

Greg paled. "Oh God, I'm sorry. I meant…"

"I know what you meant, mate, but aren't you just lucky I wasn't intending to jump?"

John stated, and swung his legs back onto the roof. He stood and walked away from the edge. He walked through the door and down to the ground floor.

"There, I'm on the ground now. Via the staircase." John added, trying to poke a bit more fun at the DI. "I'll see you in the morning."  
"Thank you, John." Greg said, still feeling like he was holding a tower of glasses in his hands.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock peered at the number calling his phone. He didn't recognise it.

"Sherlock Holmes." He stated quickly, answering the call.

"Sherlock! It's Sebastian! Sebastian Wilkes, you know, from university?"  
"Ah yes, Sebastian. How are you?"

"I'm doing well, I'm working for a big financial company now."  
"And how can I be of service?"  
"Ah, yes you get right to the point, as always. We've had a break in. A weird one. You deal in weird puzzles right? I want answers, and I'll pay you for some. Come by as soon as you can, this morning if possible."

Sherlock considered for a moment. He definitely wanted to go; he was insanely bored. But he didn't want to give his old acquaintance the impression of being too interested. His eyes flickered to the empty kitchen. As much as he hated to accept money for his work, the fact was that he still had to pay for things.

"I'll see you soon then."

Sherlock hung up the phone and thought. If it were a robbery of any significance, Sebastian would have the police involved instead. So likely there was something taken that wasn't money. Sherlock tilted his head, replaying Sebastian's words. A break in, he'd said. Not a robbery or theft. That would imply that there wasn't anything stolen, so maybe something broken instead. He assumed that the puzzle to solve would be of course how the criminal got in. But _why_ was often much more interesting.

Sherlock got dressed in his usual attire and headed out. He didn't need to ask where to find Sebastian, he worked that out already. He entered the fancy building and ended up sitting opposite his old colleague chatting. Well, Sebastian chatted. Sherlock responded. Sherlock didn't do small talk unless there was something to be gained by it. Still, he did enjoy Sebastian's enthusiasm regarding his deductions and so played along, informing him of his recent round-the-world trips.

After what Sherlock considered an arduous amount of time chatting, he was brought to the scene of the crime. He peered at the CCTV footage of the graffiti painted, the assailant nowhere to be seen. Sherlock looked about, seeing the expanse of desks within the building, and the clear drop outside from the balcony. It was obvious that criminal had climbed in through the window: so obvious it made Sherlock groan. He was surrounded by idiots that seemed to revel in their own financial successes but apparently not understand how doors work. If the perpetrator had entered the room through the office door, then any one of the other numerous CCTV cameras would have caught him. But there was no footage of anyone breaking in throughout the floor. All the entrances were locked down and recorded no forced entry… all except the unlocked balcony door to the office. It was obvious to him, yes, but he knew he'd need proof that someone could scale a building in that manner before he'd be believed. So, to do that, he'd need to find the culprit. And to do that, he'd need to find out for whom the message – yes, message, as no casual graffiti artist breaks into a financial powerhouse building through the window this high up just for a little vandalism – was intended.

Sherlock, through a series of bobbing and weaving around the office floor for which he received numerous strange glances, learned the message must have been intended for Edward Van Coon. No one else had the direct line of sight for the message who worked the hours to receive such a message.

John mumbled to the office clerk that he had an appointment with DI Greg Lestrade at 9 am. The lady was not very helpful, insisting that he take up the matter with the desk sergeant. John paced about the desk, anxiety rising in his stomach. Luckily, Greg walked up to the desk and shook John's hand. He mentioned to the clerk that John was always welcome, and ushered him through to his office.

"Please, have a seat."  
John sat opposite the desk to Greg, and looked about uncomfortably. Greg got out some paper from one of the overflowing desk files.

"I'll just take down some notes while you tell me about what happened last night." Greg said with a smile. John appreciated the directness and lack of conversation about his mental health. John then recounted exactly where he was (leaving out the 'why'), and then what he saw. Greg wrote down the details and set the file aside.

"Thanks for that." Greg said warmly.  
"No worries. I felt like I needed to say something, I don't think many people would have seen it." John responded.

Greg nodded, and opened a new file to record the incident into the computer system, when a notification popped up once the address was inputted. "Hmm, interesting. Seems there's been another report of this. The CEO notified Scotland Yard that the break-in occurred, but there was no theft and so are going to deal with the matter internally."  
"The same guy, you think?" John asked.

"I'd say so."

The pair sat there a moment, thinking. John didn't have anything else to do, and so wanted to have as much company as possible without interrupting the detective. Greg's mobile then buzzed, having received a text. He quickly glanced over it, and noticed it was from Sherlock.

"Hang on, just gotta see what this is about. It's from Sherlock, that bloke that was with me that night we met."

John nodded as Greg read the text. His brow furrowed, and then told John he needed to call in a response – that it was possibly related to the climbing incident. John wasn't sure if he was supposed to leave or not, but before he could decide, Lestrade had already dialled.

Sherlock stood in Van Coon's apartment, looking at the body. He'd had to climb down the newly-moved-in above neighbour's balcony to get in to the flat, and was confronted with Van Coon lying dead on his bed. Sherlock had observed him closely, and then browsed around the rest of the apartment before texting Lestrade. Sherlock's phone rang while it was still in his hand.

"Lestrade." Sherlock stated.

"Hi Sherlock. Now what's this about a banker being murdered?"

"Edward Van Coon received a message last night, at his workplace. Someone broke in through the window on the 22nd floor and painted symbols on the wall for him to see, and now he's dead in his apartment. It was made to look like suicide but I assure you it wasn't."

"Right. I'll send forensics down to your address. Listen, you might want to get back here, I've just had a report of someone being seen climbing into the building last night."

"Oh, convenient. I'll be there momentarily."

Sherlock hung up the phone. Maybe he didn't need to catch the person responsible to prove that the break in happened through the unlocked window after all. He left the apartment, and was fairly certain he passed the forensics team on the way to Scotland Yard. He walked into Greg's office, and was internally shocked for a moment to see John sitting there. A quick glance up and down the military doctor told him that he'd not long been out of hospital, and had indeed quickly returned back to a suicidal nature.

"John." Sherlock spoke as he took a seat beside the man.

"Sherlock." John stated. He'd thought about Sherlock often since their last encounter. Sure, he was irritating, but he was indeed brilliant.

"So you were the one to see the intruder?" Sherlock asked, knowing the answer was yes anyway.

"Yes, John just finished giving me a report of what happened. Look, Sherlock, if this guy did murder one of the employees, we'll need all the evidence we get to try and make an arrest."  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I doubt you'd be capable of hunting down such a man, and that's assuming that they are even the same person."

"You don't think that the intruder is the killer?" John asked. He wasn't entirely sure why he was allowed to be a part of the conversation, but he liked it anyway. It was interesting. Sherlock noticed a gleam in John's eye at the intrigue of the case. He gave a smirk.

"I believe it is, yes, but I needed to make the point that you can't just assume you're looking for one man. The symbols painted in the office by the intruder were a threat, and likely as a part of an underground criminal network."  
"Wait, what symbols?" Greg asked. Sherlock handed over the photos he'd been given by Sebastian.

"So these are a code of some kind? And the victim would have had to have been a part of the network to understand the threat." John said, looking at the images that Greg passed him. He still didn't think he was supposed to be there witnessing all of this, but he'd not felt this alive since Afghanistan. Sherlock looked at John, eyebrow rising slightly and eyes ever so slightly squinting. He couldn't help but think that was a very observant deduction.

"Indeed." Sherlock stated, a small smile breaking his lips.

Greg's phone rang again, this time from DI Dimmock of the forensics team.

"Lestrade." Greg said, and listened to the report.

"Suicide? But Sherlock said it was murder." Greg said into the phone. Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes. He put out his hand, indicating he wanted to speak to the detective.

"Yeah, um, hold on Sherlock wants a word." Greg spoke, before handing over the phone.

"Are you blind?" was Sherlock's opening statement. "It's obvious."

There was garbled talk on the other side of the line that Greg and John couldn't make out.

"Yes, the doors were locked from the inside… No, that doesn't mean… he came in through the window… yes of course he could have… look at his hands! The gun is in his right hand, the bullet wound is on the right, but Van Coon was left handed! …. Just look about the apartment, that will tell you all you need." Sherlock spoke, finishing as if the DI on the other line would suddenly believe him. A bit premature, it seemed, as Sherlock sighed deeply before giving a long rant of the placement of items in the flat: from the butter on the breadknife to the coffee table and wall socket use. John blinked in awe. Not only were these brilliant deductions, but he was recalling everything exactly from Greg's office.

"Get the ballistics report. I assure you, the bullet in Van Coon's brain did not come from his gun."

Sherlock hung up the phone and gave it back to Greg.

"Oh, that's ok, I didn't need to ask any more questions anyway…" Greg said sarcastically as he pocketed his mobile. His sarcasm seemed to be lost on Sherlock, however.

"Incredible." John stated. Sherlock looked at him and smiled again.

"Oh just basic deductions. Lestrade… once you get the ballistics report, you'll know that it wasn't suicide, it was murder. John, I will need your assistance soon. The company that was broken into wants to know how the break-in occurred, and so will need your eye witness report to support my observations that the perpetrator accessed via the balcony."

"Oh um, sure… I'll give you my number." John said, and started looking about. Greg handed him a pen and a scrap of paper. He gave his number to Sherlock.

"Thank you. I will text you my number should you need to contact me. Now, I must be going. There's more to this than just a random threat and murder." Sherlock stood, and looked down to John as he made his way to the door.

"And John, it was good to see you. It's now obvious to me that rest isn't what you need to recover. You need some excitement, some distraction in your life. Boredom is killing you, John, not trauma. Go out and do something again."

Sherlock once again left, with John staring at him leaving.

"Yes." Greg stated out of nowhere. John turned to him questioningly. "He's always like that."


	8. Chapter 8

John sat back in his flat. He was still thinking about Sherlock's words to him. It was true, he'd been interested in the investigation, and had felt better about helping. He hadn't been reminded of any traumas at the mention of a killing… there were no flashbacks to the war like his therapist had indicated would happen. He'd _enjoyed_ being involved. So much so that his empty flat now felt even emptier. He wanted that sense of purpose again in his life. And it seemed Sherlock was right: resting about trying to hide from supposed triggers only served to make things worse.

John laid back on his bed and stared at the ceiling. He could work as a doctor again. Just a few days a week at a clinic as a GP would be enough… he didn't want to start out with too much. It might have seemed mundane to him the last time he thought of it, but that was before. Helping others again would be worth any difficulties or monotony that he might encounter. Besides, he wasn't stuck there doing it forever if he decided that being a GP wasn't for him.

John sat back up again. He'd decided. He'd go out to find a position as a GP. John sighed a little to himself… he was rather out of practice. But instead of letting that kill his idea, he felt a sense of motivation that made him stand and grab his keys, wallet, and phone. He knew of a few clinics in London he could apply for. In a way he liked applying for places that weren't the closest to where he lived… it gave him an excuse to get out. Once he went and applied for some positions, he was going to go to the library and borrow out a few books to help refresh his memory. It felt good to have a plan of action for the day.

Sherlock had informed Sebastian of Van Coon's demise, but he'd seemed less than interested. It was at that point that Sherlock decided to withhold the information regarding the break in. He might need access to information back at Van Coon's office to solve the case, and he wouldn't be able to get any without being officially there to work out the security breach.

But, much more interestingly, there had been another death of a similar manner to Van Coon. A man named Brian Lukis. He'd needed to go to Scotland Yard and convince the blockheads that run the place that the two deaths were connected, and to subsequently get permission to investigate the apartment. He'd succeeded, particularly because the ballistics report had come through and he'd been proven right, and now was entering the book-littered residence. Sherlock observed around, and noticed that Lukis had borrowed a library book the day of his death. Figuring it was as good a place as any, Sherlock decided to retrace Lukis' steps and hopefully find another threatening message.

John was thinking to himself about clinics in the area that he could apply to. He still had a practising licence, but would need to renew it soon. He was walking deep in thought when suddenly he collided with something. A bit dazed from the shock, he noticed that the colliding object was in fact a young man, whom had been knocked onto the ground. He groaned as John bent over to give him a hand up.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't see you there…" John spoke, lifting the man to his feet.

"No no, it's my fault, I didn't look where I was going, I'm really sorry. I just have a lot on my mind." The young man blabbered out. John noticed that he was anxious or worried about something. He kept looking about, and his hand movements were drawn in and jerky. John thought about continuing to walk, but had a better idea. He could use this as a golden opportunity to brush up his GP skills.

"Are you ok?" John asked, and the man nodded, then shook his head, but then uttered 'yeah'. John knew better. The man was trying to be honest while not complaining to a complete stranger.

"I'm John. I'm a doctor, don't worry. I just wanted to see if you were injured."  
"Andy. No, no, I'm not injured, I just… Sorry, you're probably busy, I'll just go…"  
"No, I'm not busy at all. Is there something bothering you?"

Andy looked nervous, like he really wanted to talk about something but was scared of doing so. John indicated to the ledge beside them.

"Come, sit down. Tell me what's on your mind. It's the least I can do for knocking you off your feet." John said with his best calm doctor voice, smiling.

"Oh, um, ok, thanks." Andy mumbled out. He took a deep breath. "My work friend, Soo Lin, has just disappeared. The museum – where we work – said she handed in a resignation, but she was in the middle of a restoration work that was very important to her and I know she wouldn't just leave. And my boss just thinks it's because I asked her out but it's not that, I know it. I don't know what to do… I mean, what if the resignation is a fake? Or what if something happened that forced her to leave? I…I'm sorry, I just… I'm worried."

John nodded. "Alright. Well, you could talk to the police? I mean just in case."

"You think? They won't just laugh at me?"  
"Nah, I don't think so. Even if they don't do anything, it means you've done all you can do. And if they do look into it and find something amiss, then you'd have helped your friend." John said.

"Thank you, John. I'll go do that. Yeah. Thanks." Andy got up off the ledge and shook John's hand. "It was nice to meet you."

"And you. Good luck."


	9. Chapter 9

John applied to two clinics that were close to each other. The library was rather close, and John felt rather like he needed to refresh his knowledge. The interviews, even the short ones as he passed over a resume, felt rather rigourous. John walked up to the medical section within the large library. There was a comfortable seating area in the middle of the towers of books, and John thought it would be nice to sit there on the couches and flick through a few reference guides. He walked along the shelves, and picked out four of the more standard medical practitioning books. Resting his cane on the couch beside him, John opened a book on his knee and browsed over the contents.

Not long after he sat down, a flash captured his attention in the corner of his eye. He glanced up and saw the long black billowing coat of Sherlock Holmes. John couldn't believe it. Was he being stalked? John wanted to call out to the man, but a pang of anxiety held him back. What if he was being stalked? It wasn't really that thought that scared him. It was the thought that he was _excited_ at the possibility of this intriguing man stalking him.

"Sherlock!" John called out. Sherlock froze and whipped around, his icy eyes peering about for the person calling.  
"John." Sherlock uttered in his deep baritone voice. Sherlock's eyes quickly darted over John's new more cared-for appearance, and the medical books by his side that he was reading. "I'm glad to see you've taken my advice, and surprised."  
"Why surprised?" John asked patiently, feeling like it could be an insult or just a passing comment.

"Because most people just want to punch me instead, and don't listen to me."

"Oh. Well it was true, I guess." John concluded.

There was a moment of silence, both waiting for the other to continue the conversation. Just as Sherlock was about to continue to his section, John spoke again.

"Hang on, what's a guy that knows everything doing in a library?"

Sherlock laughed, a deep throaty chuckle, before responding. "I don't know everything, John. I have limited space in my hard drive, and so I do need to look things up. But that's not why I'm here."

Hoping to drag John along with him, Sherlock made to walk off slowly. He continued when he noticed John getting up and walking over to him.

"Well, then what are you doing here?" John asked while he caught up to Sherlock. The man turned his head towards John and looked him in the eyes.

"There's been another murder. A journalist, Brian Lukis. I don't know the connection to the banker yet, but there is one I'm sure of it. On the day he died, Lukis borrowed a book from this library. If I'm not mistaken, he'd been threatened just like Van Coon."  
"You think there are more symbols here?"

Sherlock smiled at John. The man was smart, and interested in the case. If he played his cards right, Sherlock thought he could wrap the army doctor into being his assistant and flatmate. He just had to make John see that his limp was psychosomatic, somehow. Sherlock believed that would be enough convincing for John to stick around.

They stopped at the section where the book had been borrowed from.

"John, look about to see if there are any clues."

"Alright." John said. He wasn't really sure what he was looking for, but enjoyed investigating either way. There was just silence between them, and John found it uncomfortable.

"So, what have you been up to, Sherlock?"

"The case."

There was no more response from the detective as he rummaged through books. John waited another awkwardly silent moment, before deciding to tell Sherlock what he was up to lately.

"Well, I am just brushing up on some things before applying to clinics. I ran into this guy this morning, like literally walked into him. He was all anxious, so I decided to test out my GP skills a little. He was all worried about his museum friend, Soo Lin or something, disappearing. Andy, was his name. He seemed to calm down once I suggested to report it to the police."  
Sherlock sighed. "Do I make you uncomfortable, John?"

"No, why?"

"You're rambling about insignificant details in an attempt to initiate small talk with me to mask the silence between us that you obviously find uncomfortable."

John was a little taken aback. "No, No I didn't... I was just chatting. You're a little socially awkward, yeah, but it doesn't make me uncomfortable or anything."

"Good." Sherlock stated plainly. "I spend a great deal of time in silence. It would be most inconvenient if that made you uncomfortable or irritated."

John wasn't really sure what to say to that, but Sherlock had made it clear that he didn't need to say anything if he didn't want to or need to. So John remained silent.

"Sherlock." John stated, pulling out some books from the bookshelf he was browsing. Behind them was the same symbols as in the bank building, spray painted against the back wall of the shelf in the same yellow colour.

"Hm, so he was threatened as well. These symbols, they must be an ancient code of some kind. I need to go talk to a paint expert."

John nodded at the first part of the sentence, but was confused with the paint part. What did the paint matter?

"Thank you for your help John. I'll be in touch about the bank." Sherlock said and walked off. John, again, followed.

"That's it?"  
"For now, John, yes. Good luck with your applications." Sherlock said with a smile, a warm smile that seemed so contradictory to his icy blue eyes. Then, in a whirl of his coat, he was gone.

John walked back to the books he'd left on the sofa. He picked up his book again, and continued where he left off. He couldn't focus though. He read the same paragraph about paediatric immunisation three times, but the information just wouldn't stick. He couldn't stop thinking about the symbols. He wanted to know what they were.

"But how would I find out what they mean?" John asked himself, looking about. Then it hit him. "Oh. Library. Right."

He put his diagnostic medicine books away, and then walked up to the counter to ask the librarian where the books on symbology were. The lady at the desk was quite helpful, and led him to the section he was after.

John flicked through numerous books, but couldn't seem to find a translation. He was able to deduce that the symbols looked like some of the old Chinese symbols. He put the book away that he'd been reading. He was a bit out of his depth. Remembering that the man he bumped into worked at the museum, he decided he needed to talk to an expert and that the museum would be the best place to start to look for one. Andy might know someone he could ask.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock headed back to Van Coon's office. He chatted with Van Coon's secretary, whom obviously had been having an affair with him. She seemed upset with the death, but wasn't afraid to mention that she had been unappreciated. Sherlock asked for Van Coon's diary and receipts, trying to track his movements on his last day. Annoyingly, the day in question didn't have much written down. The receipts did prove helpful though, as the fares for the taxi didn't add up. Sherlock noticed a receipt for coffee, and decided to retrace Van Coon's steps for the day… starting with the cab ride.

At the museum, John asked to speak to Andy. The receptionist called him over, and before long the young man came to the counter.

"John?" He asked, suddenly unsure as to what was going on.

"Andy, hello. I'm not stalking you, I promise. I just have a problem that I need your help with."

"Oh. Right. Sure thing, how can I help?"  
"I need to have these ancient symbols translated. As far as I can tell, they're ancient Chinese of some sort. Can you ask if your expert in ancient China can have a look at them for me?" John passed over a drawing of the symbols.

"I'm sorry if they're not copied exactly, they were drawn from yellow graffiti and so might be a little distorted."

"Oh, um, John, actually Soo Lin is our expert in ancient Chinese artefacts and writings. And as you know, she's still missing." Andy said, initially looking anxious but then changed to looking thoughtful. John sighed, hitting a dead end.

"But… yellow graffiti you say? John, I've seen these symbols before. There is a statue downstairs that was defaced with the same symbols, with yellow spray paint. I saw it when I went looking for Soo Lin, since that was where she was last known."

John's expression turned serious.

"Andy, this is very important. We have to go to Soo Lin's house. These symbols are some kind of threat, and the two others that I know have been sent the message were found dead."

Andy panicked, and started to hyperventilate. John then regretted mentioning the chance of death.

"I … I can't leave work; my boss doesn't believe me. And even if she did, she'd just tell me to let the police handle it. Please, John, you have to help."

Andy grabbed a pen and paper from the desk, and wrote an address on it. He handed it to John.

"This is her address. Please, go look for her and tell the police."  
"I will. Thank you." John said, nodding.

John left the museum and decided to call Greg.

"Lestrade."  
"Hi Greg, it's John."  
"Oh, hi John. What's going on?"  
"I bumped into Sherlock at the library, and he'd said there was another death. We found another set of symbols, the same as the first, there at the library. But that's not why I called. It's that I've found another set… this time at the museum. A guy I know reported his friend missing today, and it turns out she'd also been threatened with the same symbols. Greg, she could be dead or in danger."  
"Oh, great work John. Thanks. Have you told Sherlock? He's kinda headlining this case for now."

"No, do you want me to?"

"Nah, it's ok, I can do it. So do you know where this other person lives?"

John read out the address, and thanked Greg for listening. Greg had assured him that he'd request that they send a team out to investigate the apartment, and that he'd call Sherlock. John decided to go to the apartment himself anyway. He couldn't help it though; he was enthralled in the mystery of the case.

Sherlock got out of the taxi and walked around. He was near the Chinese district. The last receipt he had from Van Coon was of a coffee place. Then he presumably took the tube. The assumption Sherlock had was that he had something large and bulky, or possibly fragile, that he couldn't take on the tube to this destination. He then deposited said item somewhere, and was able to take the train from there. The question remained… where had he made the delivery? Sherlock wandered about the street, looking for any indication. He couldn't help but feel he had hit a block in the road. The answer was here, he knew it, but he didn't have enough information to find it. And that really annoyed Sherlock.

Sherlock sat on a seat and thought. It had to be a shop here, somewhere within 200m… it's unlikely that Van Coon would have walked much further when he could have just taken the taxi to the door. And that when he saw John. The smart and inquisitive army doctor… just walking up the street. Sherlock leapt to his feet and dashed out to meet him.

"John?"

John looked around incredulously. Low and behold, Sherlock Holmes was running up to him. John knew that it was more than coincidence, and that the detective was investigating the case and so it was reasonably likely that he'd come to find out about Soo Lin eventually. He just hadn't expected him to be here so quickly. Lestrade must have made it sound urgent. Good on him, John thought.

"Hey Sherlock."  
"What are you doing here, John?"

"I said to Andy I'd have a look as well. I just didn't expect you to get here so quickly."

"Why would you expect me here?"  
"Well, Lestrade said you'd want to know and I just assumed…"  
"What does Lestrade have to do with it?"

John stood there confused. Did Sherlock really not know, and just coincidentally make it here on his own at this exact time, or was he just playing some mind game with John? Sherlock's phone rang, and he answered it while John remained staring at him. Suddenly, realisation gleaned over the detective's eyes.

"Ah yes, thank you Lestrade. Coincidentally, I'm already here following Van Coon's trail. And so is John. Because he's smart, Lestrade. And curious." Sherlock spoke into the phone, and then hung up. John was starting to understand why Sherlock kept saying most people just got angry with him. John didn't know why, but he was getting a little annoyed with the detective himself.

"Ok so you found another cypher message? Nice catch, John. Although I would have preferred you told me yourself when you did." Sherlock said, and waited to be told the address. John's anger picked up at Sherlock's expectation, like he was just a messenger boy. He didn't even know why he was annoyed; he could have been just left in the dark about the whole case.

"This apartment just here." John stated bluntly, the implication of annoyance lost on Sherlock, as he pointed out an apartment.

Sherlock ran his hands over the directory that was left at the door.

"When was the last time it rained?"

"Why should I know?"

Sherlock looked up at John. He muttered something about it being days ago, and then moved around the alleyway.

"Sherlock, where are you going?"

"I'm going inside." Sherlock stated, and began climbing up to the window. John knew he'd have no hope of following with his leg, and so went back to the front door and waited to be let in. And waited.


	11. Chapter 11

"Sherlock? Let me in."

John could hear a faint voice from inside, saying someone else had come in through the window. The doctor paced about, and stood waiting for a few minutes.

John was getting very annoyed by this stage, and grumbled out complaints to the air and through the mail slot.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes, I always work alone because no one can compete with my massive intellect!"

John couldn't take any more and decided to leave to cool off his temper. He wandered into the shop next door... it was filled with Chinese souvenirs and antiques of all sorts. The woman tried to sell him a lucky cat, after which the store was named, for his "wife", but he declined. Instead, he picked up a small cup. His eyes narrowed as he saw the same symbols labelled on the items. So it was a numbering system, of ancient China, that was coincidentally being used for prices or stocktake in this little shop. He put the cup down gently, and then rushed out of the store.

Sherlock was standing there, looking out of breath, and swivelling on the spot. The man seemed to relax a little upon seeing John.  
"John, good… I… I thought you er left." Sherlock said, his voice sounding very hoarse. John rushed over to him, in full doctor mode. Sherlock looked very pale (well, paler than usual), and it concerned John. He left his cane resting against the door as he raised his hands to investigate Sherlock's face.  
"You alright?" He asked. Sherlock coughed and nodded.  
"Are you sure? You look like you've been strangled…"

"I'm fine John!" Sherlock insisted, and pushed the concerned doctor's hands away. John decided to leave it be for now, and tell him about the numbers in the store next door. Suddenly life gleamed back into Sherlock as he jumped to attention and entered the store himself. John followed.

Sherlock browsed about the items, and John went over to the little cup he picked up earlier and showed it to Sherlock. The woman at the counter made a noise of understanding and nodded at John.  
"Your husband will like." she stated to him, still holding up the cat figurine. Before John could correct her, Sherlock had clapped his hand on John's shoulder to usher him out of the store.  
"They're numbers John, the cyphers. 15 and 1. Erg, what does that mean?" Sherlock said frustratedly as they left the Lucky Cat.  
"I don't know. And that woman in there… thinking we were a couple… geez…" John stated, wishing he knew more and that he could correct the old woman, but more wishing he had food. His stomach agreed, and grumbled on cue. Sherlock took notice and looked at John's stomach then up to John.  
"Lunch! Come on, there's a place over here." Sherlock stated, and scurried off before listening for John's response. John was bewildered by the sudden change, and hurried to catch up to Sherlock.

"Hey, Sherlock, I hadn't even finished talking and you run off…"  
"Get used to it, I do it a lot. Now, what do you want?"  
John was still in shock over the sudden relocation, and then the abruptness from this strange man, and now he had to already know what he wanted for lunch?  
"Er… I'm not sure, what have they got?"  
Sherlock rolled his eyes slightly and grabbed a menu, passing it to John, and moved to a seat. John followed slowly whilst looking over the menu. He sat opposite Sherlock without taking his eyes off the food images before him. Still, John could feel the man's icy gaze boring holes through the cardboard menu, and so John felt pressured to just order anything. A waiter came to the table, and Sherlock ordered a glass of water. John then ordered a beef noodle dish with some tea, and then looked back at Sherlock.  
"That's all thank you." Sherlock instructed the waiter, who nodded and took the menu back to the counter.  
"You're not getting anything?"  
"I'm working. Digesting slows me down."  
"Oh. Ok." John wasn't really sure how to respond to that, and then he remembered from earlier that he didn't have to.

"Soo Lin wasn't there. But you were right, someone was sent there to kill her."  
"I don't understand what she's got to do with it all, though, Sherlock."  
"Well, my conclusion is that both Van Coon and Lukis were smuggling things into the country."  
"Smugglers? How?"  
"Van Coon's schedule. He took a cab here from the airport and the tube home, obviously carrying something bulky or fragile. Made the drop off to somewhere here and then left. It would seem that Soo Lin was the drop off point, and so that's how she's involved."

John's food arrived, and he began eating gratefully. Still with some food in his mouth, John continued their conversation.  
"Now that doesn't make sense. Why would they be killed if they made the delivery? And why all of them?"  
Sherlock hummed.

"Maybe one of them stole something. Took from the supplier… they didn't know who had it, and so threatened them all."  
"Yeah I guess that makes sense. It's weird though, a museum employee with a good job doing smuggling on the side."  
"Oh not really, John. It's a good cover… being an expert in the items being traded. Van Coon, and I am assuming Lukis as well, were smuggling things out of China. Soo Lin could have even influenced the museum into buying some of the blackmarket goods."  
John nodded with a mouthful of noodles. Sherlock Holmes was always right, it seemed. Or at least had a reasonable explanation for everything.

"Soo Lin wasn't there, though. We need to find her… before the assassin finds her."  
"I'm sorry, but 'we'?" John mumbled.

"Yes, John, you've been an immense help to me thus far and have managed not to physically harm me… I enjoy having you around. And by the looks of it, you have as well. You didn't need to investigate, but you did anyway because you were curious and love it. It's been doing you good too."  
"What do you mean?"  
Sherlock gave a knowing smile before answering.

"You left your cane on Soo Lin's door, and seemed perfectly fine without it."

John stopped chewing. He blinked, and turned around to look out the window and about the table. He… he had left the cane there, and he hadn't even noticed. His leg hadn't been hurting at all. John looked up at Sherlock incredulously. John then beamed. Being around Sherlock for just this small amount of time had made such an improvement on his life. But, before John could express any sentiment at all, a young man came up to them at the table.

"G'day Mr 'olmes, I'm sorry ta interrupt ya date, but I've found more o' that paint you asked about."  
Sherlock stood and thanked the man before turning to John.  
"I need to go and see about this, John. I'm sorry. Here…" Sherlock opened his wallet and put down more than enough to cover the bill, and dropped down a card on the table. "That's for lunch, and that's my address, you can come by later and give it back and we can talk more about the case. See you tonight."

And then before John could swallow, both the men were gone. John picked up the money and the card. It was a library card, with Sherlock's address on it. He slid the card into his wallet for safe keeping, but left the cash on the table for the bill which promptly came out. But John remained seated, happily eating the rest of his meal and reflecting on his new life without the cane.

John took a stroll about town before walking to the tube station and catching a train back to Sherlock's place. It was getting towards peak hour, and so the trains were running very slow. John didn't mind, he just sat near the window and stared at the buildings passing by. That was, until, the train crept by a wall that was covered in more yellow cyphers. John stared as best he could at the wall as the car rattled by, and pushed past people to get off at the next station. John knew it wasn't exactly legal, but he figured he was helping Scotland Yard and so could talk his way out of it… and so jumped down onto the tracks and walked back to where the wall was. John whipped out his phone and took a photo, and hurried back to the station.


	12. Chapter 12

John arrived at 221B, but instead of being greeted by the tall and handsome Sherlock, he found himself face to face with an old woman.  
"Oh, um, sorry, I was looking for Sherlock Holmes."  
"Ah yes, Sherlock rents the flat upstairs from me. I'm Mrs Hudson, his landlady. Why don't you come in and wait for him?"  
"Oh, er… yeah, sure." John awkwardly said, not wishing to intrude but also not wanting to wait around on the street.

Mrs Hudson led him into a small kitchen and gestured to a seat at the table. She asked if he wanted tea or coffee, and he asked for a coffee without sugar. Joining him at the table, Mrs Hudson sipped her drink and smiled at him.  
"I don't see many people here for Sherlock. Mostly his brother or the police. It's nice, he's getting out there and meeting people."  
"Yeah, I suppose it is."  
"So who are you?"  
"John. John Watson."  
"Nice to meet you John. Sherlock's been muttering to himself about wanting someone to share with upstairs… I think he's lonely. So I'm glad he's met you."  
"Oh, no we're not a couple…" John blurted out, but had to think for a moment. Maybe Sherlock did see him as a potential boyfriend? It would explain some things at least…  
"Oh don't worry, we get all sorts here. I'm very non judgemental." Mrs Hudson exclaimed with a nod of her head. John decided not to argue with an old lady he'd just met, and so continued to just drink his coffee.

Before long, Sherlock Holmes strode into the little kitchen.

"John! So glad to see you. I see you've become acquainted with Mrs Hudson?"

"Yes, I told him about you wanting a flatmate…"  
"Thank you, Mrs Hudson. But certainly John has some more important business to do here than browse my flat as a potential living area." Sherlock said, cutting off Mrs Hudson. John looked between them and then coughed.

"Yeah, um actually I found some more cyphers."  
Sherlock looked at him intensely, so much so that John felt a little uncomfortable staring back into the icy blue eyes.  
"Where, John? Can you show me? Do you remember what they look like?"  
"Yes, I remember…but it'd be a bit dark to go out now? Besides, I don't need to…"  
"… We must go now! Before they're gone! A secret underground society will doubtfully leave messages up for very long." Sherlock blurted out, and rushed to to the door.

"No wait, hang on…" John said, getting up and following. Sherlock turned so that John was inches from him, and then closed that distance even more. John was instantly stunned at having another man this close to his face.  
"If we don't find it, we have to rely on your memory… and human memory is…"  
"Sherlock! I took a picture on my phone!" John interjected, and waved his phone between their (much too close) faces. Now Sherlock was the one that looked slightly stunned.

"Oh. Great then!" he said, and snatched the phone from John's hand. He looked over the image on the phone.

"Come upstairs John." Sherlock instructed. John looked to Mrs Hudson, who just smiled at them both and cleaned up the mugs. Sherlock had already began walking away, and so John just followed instead of deciding if he actually wanted to or not.

The apartment upstairs was a mixed collection of strange items, dust, old furniture, chemistry equipment, and books. But it had a great deal of potential… it really was a great living space in the heart of London. He thought about what Sherlocks' landlady had said about him wanting a flatmate, and was honestly considering it. But John quickly dismissed the idea, as it seemed Sherlock was after a live-in boyfriend more than just a flatmate. Besides, Sherlock was yet to say anything to him and so probably didn't even want him there anyway.

"Make yourself comfortable." Sherlock said, as he took off his large black coat and hung it near the door. John walked up to the old chair with the union jack pillow and flopped down into it. Sherlock strolled over and took his laptop from the nearby desk, and elegantly seated himself in the dark black chair opposite John.

"It's a nice place you have here."  
"Hmm. Yes, it is, although it's rather empty at the moment."  
John looked about the place, with stuff literally falling off the walls.  
"Really? Seems a bit cluttered to me… oh right you meant… with people… I got you." John said and cleared his throat.  
"Would you like to stay John? You'd be a great help." Sherlock said without taking his eyes from his computer.  
"Oh, I would love to help, but I have an interview at a clinic first thing in the morning… so I had better be getting home."

Sherlock stopped what he was doing and looked at John.  
"This clinic is in the city, isn't it? Would it not be more convenient to stay here?"  
"I don't have any clothes or … anything… with me that I would need for the interview."  
"I would fully expect you to move all of your belongings in with you, John."  
"Oh right… no wait, what?" John asked, confused. Was Sherlock asking him to live there? Was it 'together' together? What would he say?

"I need a flatmate to get my brother off my back."  
"Yeah, but I mean… are you asking me to move in with you? I barely know you!"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking, and often spend long periods of time not talking at all. That should be about all that needs saying for the moment, as you already know what it is I do." Sherlock grumbled at John, returning his gaze to the computer.  
"Ok, but Sherlock… are you asking me as in you want company? Like, a partner?"  
"Good company I always enjoy but company in general can go either way. I've not had a partner before… but though, you are an army doctor so I'd imagine you'd cope well enough."  
John was still confused. Was Sherlock asking him to move in or not? And was he asking to go out with him or work with him?  
"Huh? You mean your job?"  
"Of course I mean my job, my work is my life. What else would I be talking about?"  
"I thought you wanted… Mrs Hudson seemed to think you wanted a ….er… romantic interest to live with you?"  
Sherlock looked back at John, not understanding at first. Then it hit him: John thought Sherlock was asking because of wanting a relationship. But he was married to his work, and any romantic attachments would only hinder him.  
"John, I'm sure that you're great, but I'm entirely committed to my work, I'm not looking for anything…"  
"No, no I wasn't, I mean I didn't want to… I just thought that you wanted, and had to check cause I'm… it's fine, really…it's all just fine…"

Well that was awkward. Both men sat there in silence for a while. Sherlock was busy writing numbers on a page he'd printed, and John was thinking that this apartment would be ideal for his work should he get the job. But even if he didn't get this one he was interviewing for, he'd apply for another in the same area and so it really didn't matter. It was a nice place. He was genuinely considering it.

"Do you have any details of the place I could look at before deciding?"  
Sherlock looked up at John's request.  
"Oh, yes, of course, hold on." Sherlock said, and printed off a copy of his lease information. It was listed in his name, but the details would be sufficient for John. He had a good feeling about the man, and was excited at the prospect of cutting the cord with Mycroft. John pocketed the information, and called for a cab home.


	13. Chapter 13

While John was off at his interview, Sherlock went to the museum. He figured it'd be the best place for Soo Lin to hide. But, she wasn't about to show himself to the police or a detective… or anyone. Not if she was fearful for her life. He spoke with Andy, who was rather concerned. Sherlock didn't exactly ease his mind, either, stating she was in hiding from an assassin. At least he was able to get the point across that he needed to find her urgently.

Andy described Soo Lin to Sherlock, and the things that he was being told didn't really add up to a smuggler. Definitely not the parts about restoring the teapots. Andy let Sherlock investigate throughout the building. Soo Lin was definitely good at hiding, which was good for her or she'd be dead… Sherlock figured. After an hour of searching, there wasn't a trace of her. Begrudgingly, the detective left the museum with full intention of coming back at closing time. Soo Lin would undoubtedly use the cover of night to escape from her hiding place.

Instead, Sherlock went to see the inspector he had been working with. He tried to convince Dimmock that both men were smuggling goods out of China, but there was little point - both men were dead, and so their smuggling days were well and truly over. Sherlock only mentioned that the assassin had killed two and threatened at third, and didn't give away any identities. He felt that more police presence would hinder his efforts to talk to Soo Lin.

John had gotten the job at the clinic, and felt he'd gotten off on the right foot with the doctor hiring him. He would start immediately, which while good for his income also posed a problem. He didn't want to commute all the way in, which meant he needed a place right away. John took out the lease papers from his pocket that Sherlock had given him while on the way home. The rent was rather reasonable. Split half ways he'd be able to afford it, given his new job. Sherlock was strange, and wild in some ways, but he liked it. It really made him feel alive, and god knows how much he missed that feeling. Though, he'd probably have to have the place tidied up a bit… it was a little too messy and dirty for his taste.

Sherlock stalked the dark halls like a shadow. The museum was eerie at night, but he enjoyed it. It hadn't been hard to get in and stay after hours… surprisingly easy actually. He witnessed Soo Lin entering her lab with a teapot, at which point he decided to make his presence known.

After the initial fright, Soo Lin calmed down enough to talk to him.  
"Why are your smuggling friends trying to kill you? Did someone take something?"  
"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not a smuggler… at least, not anymore."  
Sherlock cocked his head, inviting an explanation.

"I was once, when I was little. My brother and me, we were both orphans… we had the choice to work for the bosses or starve on the streets. We had no livelihood. But I left that life behind me, came to London… I'd hoped they'd forgotten about me."  
"Who had?"  
"The Black Lotus." Soo Lin removed her shoe and showed Sherlock the black tattoo on her heel of a lotus flower. "Every foot soldier bears the mark…"  
"Why were you threatened then?"  
"I don't know, I just wanted to do this work." Soo Lin said, gesturing at the teapots.

Sherlock inhaled deeply. So Soo Lin was much less involved than he thought. She mustn't have been the drop off point for Lukis and Van Coon… the shop. It must have been the shop! They just happened to find her then?  
"If you haven't been involved why are they still after you?"  
"No one just leaves the Black Lotus… I thought I was lucky. But then my brother came to see me, Zhi Zhu… he asked me to help him recover something that was stolen. When I refused to help, he… he said I betrayed him. The Black Lotus have made him their puppet… the one they call Shan, Black Lotus general."

Deciding to cut to the chase, Sherlock presented a print out of John's photo.  
"These are cyphers…" Soo Lin said as she looked upon the symbols.

"Yes, a code… but what does it mean?"  
"All the smugglers know it… it's based upon a book…"

Then the lights went out.  
"Zhi Zhu… he has found me."  
Sherlock instructed her to get down, and went out to stop the assassin.

There was much gunfire, and a few rounds of Sherlock shouting at the man. He just couldn't get close enough to subdue the attacker… and then there was silence. Sherlock looked about, curious as to where the shooter went. It hit him the moment there was a single gunshot that resounded throughout the hallway. Sherlock made his way back to the lab to find, sure enough, Soo Lin laying there with another black lotus paper flower in her hand… the same as he'd encountered on the other bodies and in the apartment.

Sherlock called Dimmock, and informed him that the third person that had been threatened was now dead. But at least he had a way to prove Lukis and Van Coon's connection now… he just needed to take the inspector to the morgue.

Dimmock couldn't deny the evidence before his eyes, and so asked Sherlock what he wanted. He was a bit confused when the detective requested the deceased's books, but permitted it anyway. He told Sherlock they'd be delivered before lunch the next morning.

Sherlock slept only a couple hours, and so was wide awake ready to receive the books when Mrs Hudson popped in alerting him to their delivery. There were a lot more books than he anticipated, to be honest to himself. He watched as the police officers loaded his apartment with crate after crate. Feeling a little overwhelmed, he asked Mrs Hudson to help.

"Oh I'm much too old dear to do this sort of thing… why don't you ask that friend of yours? John?"

Sherlock knew it was unfair to ask Mrs Hudson to help, and that in all honesty she'd probably slow him down. But he did really need to find the solution to this problem rather soon.

Sherlock grabbed his phone and texted John.


	14. Chapter 14

John heard his phone vibrate, but he was working his first day and wanted to seem professional… and so ignored it. It wasn't until his (late) lunch break that he pulled out his phone and looked at the text message… both of them, sent an hour apart.

 _If still interested, need help -SH_

 _If uninterested, need help anyway -SH_

John smirked upon reading the texts. He replied:

 _Sherlock, I'm at work - first day. I won't be able to come until after 6, do you still want my help?_

John slipped his phone back into his pocket and continued to drink his coffee at the table. It surprised him that he got a response within a few minutes:

 _Always. Bring dinner for yourself -SH_

Smiling, John didn't respond further as it seemed Sherlock had already deduced that John would attend. He felt excited, more so than he was for his first day at work.

That excitement lingered throughout the afternoon as John saw numerous patients. Once he was finished, he chatted with Sarah (the doctor that hired him) for a little. He got the feeling that maybe she liked him, and this made John feel even more happy. It was becoming a good day, John thought to himself. For the first time since getting invalidated he felt wanted, needed, and accomplished.

John grabbed some food for himself as per Sherlock's request and headed for Baker Street. He knocked, and again Mrs Hudson answered.

"He's upstairs, dear. I'm sure he's glad you're here."  
"Thanks." John said, not sure if she was trying to imply anything or not.

He walked up the creaky stairs and entered the formerly spacious apartment.

"My god, what happened here? What's all this?" John exclaimed, before realising that he didn't actually live there and so really had no say in how Sherlock kept the place. Sherlock's head popped up from behind one of the crate towers, beaming.

"John! So glad you could make it! We're sorting through books."

Sherlock disappeared again, and John took that to mean he could enter and move about as he wished. He placed his dinner on the mess of a kitchen table, and then walked back into the book-conquered living room.  
"Why are we looking through all these books, Sherlock?"  
"The code, John! The code!"  
"Ah right of course. What code?"

Sherlock wriggled his way through the piles of books he'd surrounded himself with, and joined John in the open space. John felt a bit weary at how close the detective was standing to him, but dismissed it as Sherlock seemed to not even notice.  
"I went to see Soo Lin… it turns out she used to smuggle for the organisation called the Black Lotus. But she escaped, and came here to just work… but her brother was the assassin the general Shan sent to find the person that stole from them, and so he killed her for 'betraying' him by not helping him track down the smugglers."  
"Oh. Right. Ok… great. But the code?"  
"Oh yes yes yes, see the cyphers, they're a code, based upon a book."  
"Ahhh so that's why there's all this…" John waved around the apartment. Sherlock grunted in agreement.

"She just was killed before she told me exactly what book it was… so I've had all of Lukis and Van Coon's books sent here, and we have to find out the ones they both had."  
"Really? That's a lot of work, Sherlock."  
"I know but it's the only way to find out what the code is… the cyphers are numbers, in pairs, referring to the page and the word on that page. But the message is different with every book so we have to not only find books they both have, but ones that make sense."

John groaned, and asked to be shown where to start. To think he was actually feeling excited about this…

Hours passed, and they had slowly worked through a whole pile of books. John's stomach gurgled, and it was then he remembered he never actually ate the sandwich he'd brought. He crawled out from the book pile and headed for the kitchen. He picked up his sandwich and was about to eat it when there was a noise from Sherlock.

"Um, you might not want to eat that."  
"Why not? I'm starving."  
"No doubt, but I neglected to mention I was in the process of studying a few different forms of poison on that table, and I have yet to clean it up. Unless you'd rather take the risk, but I'd advise against it." Sherlock said calmly, as if it were completely natural.

"What? Who the hell leaves poison around in a kitchen?"  
Sherlock looked at him with a knowing stare that said 'look who you're talking to', and then returned his gaze back to the books he'd piled around himself like a fort.

"Well, do you have anything else in?"  
"Nothing fit for human consumption." Sherlock responded without looking at John.

The doctor just stood in the kitchen, and then decided to wash his hands thoroughly. Sherlock noticed that he didn't make any move to go buy more food, but he was quite clearly hungry, which would mean he likely couldn't afford to go buy more food. He did only just start at the clinic today. Before he allowed John to feel insecure about being unable to buy dinner for himself, Sherlock gave him a way out.

"I'm sorry I ruined your dinner, John. Please, take my card from the mantle and go get yourself something. There's a nice Chinese nearby that stays open until 2, if you're in the mood for that."  
Sherlock didn't make it a question on purpose.  
"Oh, um, thanks." John strode and took the card, obviously being one that had paywave on it. "I'll be back soon...Can I take these keys?" John asked. Sherlock looked to the desk, and nodded.

"Thanks, have fun." John said sarcastically as he tossed the keys in the air and caught them. John noticed the photo he took sitting on the desk inside a ziplock bag.

"Grr, it has to be a book everyone would own!" Sherlock grumbled, violently rubbing his head.

John smiled at him and walked to the door.  
"Well, everyone in London at least." John said as he shut the door.

John had been gone nearly half an hour when Sherlock really registered what John had said: everyone in _London_.  
"The London A-Z!" Sherlock shouted suddenly. He didn't have a copy, he didn't have a need... but Mrs Hudson did. Sherlock grabbed the photo on the desk and ran downstairs.

"Sherlock what are you...?" Mrs Hudson was surprised at the detective's sudden intrusion, but didn't object.  
"I need to borrow your London A-Z!" Sherlock stated, grabbing the book and settling himself on her kitchen table.  
"Oh um ok..." Mrs Hudson said, and continued about her business.

Just as Sherlock had uncovered the first word, the threat message, as "deadman", John entered the apartment with his dinner. He didn't notice that Sherlock was in fact downstairs with Mrs Hudson, and so continued upstairs. Sherlock flickered his eyes at John, but let him be. Translating this was much more important than pleasantries. In very little time, Sherlock had deciphered the message - Nine Mill for Jade pin, dragon den black tramway.  
"John! I've got it!" Sherlock shouted, and dashed upstairs. He freezes when he sees the apartment. John's dinner was dropped on the floor and had spilled out in all directions, and there was the yellow cyphers on his windows - "deadman". Sherlock's stomach dropped.

 _"John..."_


	15. Chapter 15

_So sorry for the hiatus on this. I got consumed with my SGA story, and then things happened in life. I intend to finish this off soon, it was almost done._

* * *

John became aware of a dull pain in his head, and some faint noises. Slowly, he fluttered his eyes open. Suddenly the pain was much stronger, and he realised he was bound to a chair.

"Good evening, Mr Holmes." A woman's voice said, and John looked up and focused on a middle aged Chinese woman. Wait, Holmes?

"Huh? I'm …I'm not Sherlock." John rasped, his voice hoarse.

"Forgive me if we do not believe you. I am Shan, Black Lotus General."

"Who? What's going on?" John exclaimed while looking about. He seemed to be in a tunnel, lit only by fires in drums, and surrounded by shady-looking Chinese men. There was an… artefact… of some kind sitting right in front of him, next to the woman who called herself Shan.

"You can drop the act, Mr Holmes. Now, do you have the treasure?"  
"Treasure? Oh… oh you're the people from the cyphers. That's right, Black Lotus he said. No, I don't have it. I'm not bloody Sherlock Holmes!"  
Shan smiled, and pulled out a few items from her pocket.

"Bank card in the name of Holmes -"  
"I borrowed that -"  
"Lease papers, in the name of Holmes -"  
"He gave that to me…"  
"We even heard you say it from your own mouth."  
"What?"  
"I am Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone." Shan repeated, and John groaned. He'd said that back in China Town, when Sherlock hadn't let him into the apartment. This wasn't looking good for him - he knew that if the positions were reversed, he'd probably not believe his innocence either.

"So I ask again: do you have the empress pin?"  
"No!"

Shan huffed, and looked about the cavern before turning her attention to the Chinese artefact.  
"It's a shame you didn't get to see our show last night, Mr Holmes. But lucky for you, we will do a special performance just for you."  
"I'm not Sherlock Holmes!"

John was starting to panic now, fighting against the restraints. Shan had started talking out to no one, undoubtedly the introduction for their 'show' last night. She indicated to the artefact, and took out a large spear-looking arrow and placed it into the device, which John was now realising, was essentially a giant crossbow. His gut dropped, as he realised what as about to happen. He struggled, but the bindings were too strong.

"I ask you again Mr Holmes, where is the empress pin?"

"I'm NOT SHERLOCK HOLMES!" John shouted, in vain.

Shan sighed. She indicated with a flick of her head for someone to approach, and suddenly John was aware of a man standing behind him who walked towards her.

Curiously, the man sat on the ground, and took out a black sheet of paper. He started to fold it, as if doing origami.

"I have heard that you saw my assassin leave his first message, so I'm sure you know he is capable of killing anyone upon my command. And so believe me, Mr Holmes, when I tell you that I have no issue killing you."

There seemed to be nothing he could do. John tried to keep his head held high and his breathing steady as he looked at the weapon pointed at him. He was surprised: he actually was terrified. He didn't want to die. He wasn't sure how the change happened so quickly, but it didn't matter in the end. The last few days he had been much happier, and had wanted to try get on with living. It seemed a cruel irony that he was now about to be killed… believed to be the man that had somehow managed to turn his life around.

"Goodbye, Mr Holmes." Shan said, and plunged a dagger into a sandbag that was suspended above her. The bad moved upwards, and a weight lowered towards a platform on the crossbow.

"We would need to meet first." A baritone voice resounded down the tunnel. John sighed to himself in relief, or perhaps hope - as the weight was still being lowered down to the weapon aimed at his chest. Shan immediately whipped out a gun and pointed it towards the voice.

"I wouldn't if I were you." Sherlock called out again, as he managed to knock over a drum to darken the tunnel.  
"The bullet would ricochet, it could hit any one of us…"

There was a strangled cry as Sherlock incapacitated one of the men. He knocked over another drum.  
While Shan was distracted trying to find Sherlock, John wriggled about to wobble the chair. The assassin noticed, and darted over to stop him. With all of his weight, John threw himself to the side, and caused the chair to topple over. The assassin bent to upright John once again, but it was too late - the weight hit the crossbow, and the weapon fired. The assassin was struck, and fell to the ground instantly.

"John, John… are you alright?" Sherlock said, suddenly at the chair and undoing the bindings.  
"Yeah…I … I think so." John breathed. He'd just escaped another murder scenario, except this time, he was pleased. He was released, and stood up with the help of Sherlock. They looked around, and noticed that Shan had fled. Sherlock didn't seem too concerned, however. He seemed to just be glad John was ok.

Sherlock patted John on the back, and walked with him out of the tunnel.  
"I'll call Lestrade." Sherlock said. John just nodded. Sherlock noticed that John was still mildly in shock, but felt glad that he could see John was no longer suicidal.  
"Here." John said, putting the lease paper and credit card of Sherlock's into the detective's hand.  
"I don't want to be mistaken for you again." He said, smiling.  
"No, best not." Sherlock responded, pocketing the items.

Once they were at the surface again, Sherlock called Lestrade.  
"He's on his way." Sherlock said as he put his phone away.  
"Good, good." John said.

There was silence between them as they stood there, waiting.  
"So, have you thought about it? Coming to live with me at Baker Street?"  
"I… I have, and I will say it's a lovely place. I'm just not sure how I feel about it yet. I mean now that I have the job in London, it'd be very convenient. But for some reason I seem to be almost killed whenever you're around."  
"It's not some reason, John… you couldn't keep away. You didn't have to go to chinatown, you didn't have to help me with the books… you did it because it made you loved it, you were curious. I won't lie, what I do is dangerous. But I know that's what makes you feel alive."

Sherlock smiled as he spoke to John. He could tell everything he said was indeed true.  
"So come live with me." Sherlock repeated, emphasising the 'live' part.  
"Alright." John answered, unsure exactly what he was getting himself into.  
"But I will have to say, I'm a doctor, Sherlock… I'm no detective."  
"Ah, but that's what makes you useful. I'm already a detective, I don't need another one. I need someone with a varied skill set and resilience to morbidity, who, most importantly, can stand being around me without punching me."

Both men chuckled. They heard the sirens approach, and knew Lestrade and his team were about to start asking them all sorts of questions.

"Sherlock, while they were interrogating me… Shan kept asking me where an empress pin was. What was that about?"  
"One of the smugglers stole a small hairpin, worth 9 Million pounds."  
"9 Million? You serious? Why so much?"  
"I guess it depends on who owned it. An Empress, it seems." Sherlock shrugged.  
"Jesus, and they were killed for it."  
"I doubt they knew its value, just thought it'd make a nice present. And I know where to find it. Tomorrow, shall you accompany me to the bank?"


	16. Chapter 16 - Episode 3

Life at 221B Baker Street was actually good. John had been a little skeptical about it, but the action of life with Sherlock Holmes had turned out to be everything he'd needed. Me managed his work at the clinic and his assistance on Sherlock's cases fairly effectively. It was still early days, of course.

Sometimes Sherlock infuriated him, but other times he just stood there chuckling at how innocent the great detective could be. He'd gotten used to the experiments, even if they still sometimes shocked him. Like the time he opened the fridge to find a severed head: it just wasn't something he expected. He quickly learnt to expect _anything_ around Sherlock. The gunfire into the wall had been a surprise, but it hadn't shocked him - more just angered him. John sure didn't like it with the detective was 'bored'.

As John walked down the street, he pondered on his current situation, comparing it to just a year ago. Things were going pretty well. He noticed a phone calling from a public phone - which he found strange, as he'd always thought they could only be called _from_ , not called themselves. He shrugged it off, and kept walking.

Not more than a few metres, another phone rang, this time in the shop to his right. He eyed it, thinking it a strange coincidence. It was even more peculiar when it immediately stopped as soon as the shopowner moved to answer it.

John walked further, trying not to think of it. That was until he passed another pay phone, which also rang the moment he went near it. It wasn't a coincidence this time: he was the only one close by. Deciding to face whatever it was head on, he stepped into the booth and answered.

"Hello?" John asked, uncertain.

"There is a security camera up on the roof of the building to your left. Do you see it?"

John looked, and answered the mysterious voice.

"Yes?"

"Watch."

John watched the camera as it turned away from his direction.

"And another one, this time to your right, over by the car park."

John looked, and the same thing happened. This was certainly concerning.

"Get into the car, Dr Watson. I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is clear to you."

John was startled that the caller knew who he was; he rationalised that if this person could call him wherever he was, and control the security cameras, then of course they would know his name. A black car arrived in front of the phone booth. John stood tall, put the phone back on the hanger, and walked into the car.

He was met by a woman focused on her Blackberry, utterly ignoring him.

"Hi. I'm John Watson." John thought he'd find out if she was friend or foe.

"I know." She said blankly, and continued to look at her phone. She didn't seem to be aggressive, just disinterested.

"What's your name then?"

"Um… Anthea." She said as she looked at him.

"Is that your real name?"  
"No." The woman smiled at him, and returned her attention to the phone.

Before long, the car had pulled up at what appeared to be an abandoned - or being refurbished - factory, or possibly car park - John couldn't tell. His mind was on other things. Namely, a man standing with an umbrella waiting for him.

"Very impressive and all, but I have a phone. You could have just phoned me… on my phone." John said, trying to establish himself as someone not to be messed with.

"When one is attempting to avoid the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learn to be discreet. Hence, this place." The well-dressed man spoke, his speech eloquent. Not at all like a kidnapping criminal, so John wondered who he might be.

"You don't seem very afraid."

"You're not very frightening." John responded, his posture remaining stiff. The man chuckled.

"Ahh, yes, the bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" The man spoke, his voice altering tone almost like a song. John didn't respond, and waited for him to get to the point. The man seemed to get the hint.

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?" He spoke bluntly.

"I don't have one. I barely know him."  
"And yet you have moved in with him and are solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement sometime soon?" The man teased, prodding for information.

"Who _are_ you?" John stated.

"An interested party." The man said, smiling a mischievous grin.

"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends." John said. Sherlock didn't mention anyone like this to him before, and John doubted he would like to associate himself with these kinds of people.

"I am the closest thing to a friend Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

"And what is that?"  
"An enemy."

John was confused. So Sherlock did know this man, but he didn't seem to be causing him enough trouble to be counted as an 'enemy'. To John, at least.

"And enemy?"

"In HIS mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his 'arch-enemy'. He does love to be dramatic."

John looked at him bluntly.

"Thank God you're above all that." He said sarcastically. The man smirked.

"I would be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to, shall we say, ease your way in living at 221B Baker Street."

"Why?"  
"Because you're not a wealthy man."

"In exchange for what?" John said, annoyed he had to spell it out.

"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel… uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."

John glared at him. He was not liking the situation, but now understood that he had the high ground.

"Why?"  
"I worry about him. Constantly."

"That's nice of you." John sneered.

"I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unnoticed. We have what you might call a…difficult relationship."

John had had enough of talking with this man. He knew Sherlock was brilliant, and amazing, and often a little crazy… and would indeed attract the interest of suspicious people, but he wanted no part in blackmail.

"No." John said firmly.

"I haven't mentioned a figure." The man said casually, as if he was used to getting his way with his cheque book.

"Don't bother." John said, eager to get back home and warn Sherlock.

"You're very loyal, very quickly." The man huffed at him.

"No, I'm just not interested." John spoke.

The man eyed him up and down, and John noticed it was much the way Sherlock did when deducing information about people. He suddenly felt rather exposed, but shook the feeling. He decided to walk away.

"Trust issues." The man spoke after him. "Is is possible that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"  
John turned.

"That, would be none of your business. Leave me alone."

"Think about it, Doctor Watson." The man said, smiling, and nodded to Anthea at the car.

John walked off, angry, and got into the car. He pulled out his phone while sitting next to Anthea.

 _Sherlock, we need to talk._

 _John, I'm sure you do. Am I to just listen, or do you want answers to something? SH_

 _I have just been abducted by someone calling yourself your arch-enemy._

 _What did he want? SH_

 _To pay me in exchange for information about what you're up to._

Sherlock read the text and smiled. For Mycroft to go out of his way like this, he must be fuming that he'd found a flatmate and so could no longer demand information for rent money. And anything that has Mycroft fuming, has Sherlock beaming. He knew, however, that Mycroft was easily able to gain the information. He just liked not being manipulated into providing it.

 _Did you accept? SH_

 _Of course bloody not._

 _Pity, we could have split the money. Mycroft won't miss it. SH_

 _Mycroft?_

 _My brother. SH_

 _YOUR BROTHER?!_

John sat there in shock holding his phone. He barely noticed that he'd been taken back to 221B. Anthea nodded to get his attention so he would vacate the car.

"Why didn't you tell me you had a brother? One capable of kidnapping your flatmate?" John said to announce his presence in the flat.

"Was it important?" Sherlock said, seemingly uninterested.

"Yes it was bloody important!" John snapped, his temper growing. Sherlock registered the agitation in John's voice.

"I didn't think it would matter." Sherlock admitted, turning to face him.

"I don't appreciate being kidnapped, Sherlock." John all but shouted. He knew a lot of his anger was delayed from the meeting with Mycroft, but he didn't care.

"If this is going to be a regular thing around here, then maybe I shouldn't stay." John said after a pause. Sherlock froze, the happiness melted away.

"If…if that's your wish." He said sullenly. He honestly didn't expect John to react this way to a minor abduction.

"Look, I need to go. I got some thinking to do." John resigned, walking back out of the flat.

Sherlock watched him go in despair: he had just been so ecstatic that he'd finally gotten Mycroft off his back. He didn't understand what had happened - John had seemed so confident and self assured, even in the face of kidnapping. He did admit that he'd not associated with John for long and he'd technically been kidnapped three times, only two of which was his fault, and almost killed twice. Sherlock stood at the window, unsure if perhaps he'd misjudged the army doctor's recovery.


	17. Chapter 17

John was putting on his shoes in his friend Sarah's (from the clinic) flat. He'd decided to spend the night after walking away from Sherlock yesterday.

He noticed the news, and froze. There had been an explosion in Baker Street, and he immediately connected it to Sherlock. Or more precisely, one of Sherlock's _real_ enemies.

"Sarah!" He called out, but as she was in the shower, she no doubt didn't hear him.  
"Sarah!" He tried again, gathering his things.  
"Sarah, I've got to go." John said, knowing he wasn't heard.

The police had let him through to his building, which, to his relief, wasn't the building that had been destroyed. The windows were all shattered however, from the blast that came from across the road.

"Sherlock, I saw on the telly… are you alright?" John called as he entered the room, and was confronted with none other than Mycroft Holmes.  
"Hello, John." Mycroft greeted him politely whist seated in John's chair.  
"John. I'm fine, it was a gas leak apparently." Sherlock responded, clearly unimpressed with his brother's presence.

"I'm still not interested, Mycroft." John spoke. Mycroft just smiled at him.  
"Thank you, John, however that is not why I am here."  
"I can't." Sherlock stated bluntly, plucking his violin.  
"Never mind your usual trivia, brother dear. This is of national importance."  
"Wait, sorry, 'national importance'? Seriously? What do you even do exactly?" John asked, confused.  
"I occupy a minor position in the British Government." Mycroft said.  
"Oh please, he IS the British Government." Sherlock grumbled, still not looking at his brother. He received a stern look from Mycroft, but not a rebuttal. Instead, he focused his practiced friendly gaze to John.

"Perhaps you can talk some sense into him, John."  
"Perhaps, but about what?" John said, a little annoyed he still didn't know what was going on, but tried to look disinterested by investigating the damage to the windows.  
"If you're so keen Mycroft, why don't you investigate it?" Sherlock sniped, and John smiled.  
"No no no, I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time - not with the Korean election so… well, you don't need to know about that do you? Besides, a case like this requires… legwork." Mycroft spoke, his face cringing at the mention of 'legwork'. John was gaining an appreciation for just how powerful Mycroft Holmes was, but still found it interesting he chose to get his brother to investigate something he called of national importance if he really was 'the British Government.'

The conversation continued, Mycroft informing him about the details of the case, and Sherlock remaining adamant that he was not interested. They casually noticed his appearance and commented on his night, and Mycroft again insinuated that he and Sherlock were a couple. Mycroft left, and John had some questions for Sherlock.  
"Why didn't you take the case? You've got nothing on. You're bored, you said."  
Sherlock just shrugged, and John was hit with understanding.  
"OH. Sibling rivalry. Now we're getting somewhere."

Before Sherlock could respond, his phone rang.  
"Sherlock Holmes. Of course, how could I refuse?"  
John gave him a questioning look.  
"That was Lestrade. We've been summoned. Coming?" Sherlock said, bouncing up ready to go.  
"Um…" John hesitated, and he could see the man before him deflate.  
"I mean, you don't have to, John…" Sherlock said softly, remembering their conversation from last night.

"Look, I was just angry last night Sherlock and needed some space. I imagine it'll happen from time to time… you do tend to have that affect on people."  
Sherlock missed the humour in John's words and nodded sullenly.  
"Hey, that's just you. And I have to admit that my life is … better… with you in it." John spoke, lowering his tone at the end because of the awkwardness he felt expressing emotions.  
"As is mine." Sherlock rumbled. "So does this mean you've decided to continue working with me?"  
John looked into the detective's eyes, looking not unlike a begging puppy. He smiled.  
"Of course. I mean, if anything - my blog would be pretty dull otherwise."

Sherlock perked up again and beamed at him. He donned his coat, and cocked his head towards the door.

"Come on. I'd be lost without my blogger."

* * *

 _Notes: Thank you to everyone for following this story. I know this last part is very similar to the show, but I wanted it to weave in to continue from this point onwards as it happened. I hope you all enjoyed it!_


End file.
